


What I Am

by curlyfriesandfrosties



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 08, Episode Fix-it, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Past Sexual Assault, Past Violence, Season Fix-It, post 8x04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:25:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlyfriesandfrosties/pseuds/curlyfriesandfrosties
Summary: Under the roar of the merriment, was a purposeful step, heavy on the heel. She smiled a little and fired.It might have hit him on the nose, had she been any less skilled. But he started and the surprised – possibly impressed – look on his face was satisfactory to say the least.“Don’t shoot.”Gendry raised his hands and she lowered her bow. He was looking a little strange. Certainly, a little drunk, for he listed slightly to the left as he approached her.She notched another arrow.“It’s nighttime. It’s freezing. And everyone’s celebrating. You ought to be celebrating with them.”Beginning with Episode 4 of Season 8, this is a Gendrya-focused fix-it fic. So it will have: both POVs of the proposal, mentors talking some sense into them, the Battle of Kingslanding, the Council of Kings, and a resolution.





	1. Chapter 1

_Joffrey._ Thud _. Cersei._ Thud.  _Walder Frey._ Thud _. Meryn Trant._ Thud _._

After thinking each name, she fires. Arya could see their faces ahead of her. For those she’s killed, she remembers their deaths. For those who were claimed by her God without her, she imagines how they died.

_Tywin Lannister._  She pulls back the bowstring, picturing how he must’ve looked when he died. Its not a pretty picture. Though dying on the privy seems a fit end for such a shit of a man.

_Thud_.

_The Red Woman_. She didn’t see her die. Or rather fade away into ash. Arya supposed she should be grateful: for the prophecies, for direction, for saving so many lives with her flames. But all Arya could see was Melisandre’s face, the day she took Gendry away.

_“… put leeches on my cock.”_   Perhaps that fate was too kind. An underserved mercy.

_Thud_.

_Beric Dondarrion._  He didn’t deserve it, in the end. But she had marked him down for death and her God would not be denied. Though, Arya supposed, his end had been a sort of blessing, dying to save the world from the endless night he always rambled about.

_Thud_.

_Thoros of Myr._ He truly didn’t deserve his death, as Jon told it. Being mauled by a giant polar bear was an unfortunate end.

_Thud_.

_Petyr Baelish._ She could feel the blood still on her hands. It was warm. It felt good and she smiled against the bowstring pulled back to her cheek.

_Thud_.

_Ilyn Payne._  She wasn’t even sure if the executioner was still alive. Supposedly, the Mountain did all of Cersei’s dirty work now. And Payne might have been blown sky high with the Great Sept of Baelor. Arya hoped not. She should like to chop of his head with his own sword, like he did to her father.

_Thud_.

_The Mountain_. She couldn’t wait for this kill. His end would be slow. Torturous. Like every prisoner he’d ever kept at Harrenhall, he would die in agony. Perhaps she would torch his face for good measure.

_Thud_.

_The Hound_. She paused at this, even going so far as to lower her bow, letting the string go loose. The Hound … He’d saved her life. And she’d long since taken him off her list, in truth. But, something in her gut told her that no man on her list would survive. After all, promises had been made. And Gods are vengeful creatures.

Arya supposed some horrible fate would befall him. She remembered him bleeding out, eyes filled with pain as she left him dying on that mountainside. She would not do the same this time.

She lifted her bow, drawing and imagining his face before her, contorted in pain. She aimed the arrow. It would go clean through his eye. A quick death.

_Thud_.

Arya stopped and collected her arrows. She’d fired a perfect ring around her makeshift target. She pulled them out one-by-one, returned to her mark, and staked them in the ground.

She began again.

_Joffrey_. She’d heard his death was gruesome. Sansa had described it to her, and she could picture it perfectly in her mind’s eye: his pompous face going purple; pink, fleshy hands clawing at his throat;  yellow foam dripping from between fat, slimy lips. From what Sansa had described, Arya had surmised that the poison was the Strangler. It came in crystal form. She could picture dropping a shard into his glass.

_Thud_.

_Cersei_. Ayra had not yet decided how she might kill her. It would be difficult to get near. She would likely have to steal many faces. Perhaps, her Hand would do: the man called Qyburn – wretched half-Maester, everyone said. He was likely the only man Arya would be able to get close to. Sly, scheming men were never well protected. And yet there might also be guards … Yes, getting to Cersei would be difficult. Nevermind that securing the throne for Danearys Targaryen was  _not_  her priority. Not anymore. Arya fired without imagining any scenario, merely picturing the Queen’s smug face. Just as it had been on the day her father died.

_Twang. Thud._

She missed the bull’s eye and groaned internally. She needed to have some plan, some direction or she would miss her mark for sure.

_Walder Frey_. She had never intended to kill  _all_  of the Frey men. Originally, she schemed against their leige Lord alone. But then she had heard tales. She heard the way they laughed, still making jokes about the baying of wolves. She heard how various other Walders had tried to claim the glory of killing Robb Stark. She wasn’t even sure which one had done it. She had heard how they treated her uncle, Edmure, locked away in a cell and surely going mad. Finally, she had seen how they treated the women of House Frey and Arya had decided.

There was a tale that Old Nan used to tell, about a man who cooked his own sons in a stew or something like that. The Rat Cook. Arya had been inspired, truly. But she didn’t know how to make many things, only vaguely remembering how to make a pie thanks to Hot Pie’s endless ramblings.

That had been bloody work. But the end had been so sweet.

_Thud_.

As she was drawing back for Meryn Trant, she heard gravel crunch outside. Under the roar of the merriment, was a purposeful step, heavy on the heel. She smiled a little and fired.

It might have hit him on the nose, had she been any less skilled. But he stopped and the surprised – possibly impressed – look on his face was satisfactory to say the least.

“Don’t shoot.”

Gendry raised his hands and she lowered her bow. He was looking a little strange. Certainly, a little drunk, for he listed slightly to the left as he approached her.

She notched another arrow.

“It’s nighttime. It’s freezing. And everyone’s celebrating. You ought to be celebrating with them.”

She wasn’t cold. It was plenty warm down here, in the empty store room. She didn’t like crowds either. Ale might have been nice or perhaps a bit of tart. But since she’d killed the Night King, she hadn’t been able to relax, to sleep, to think. Everyone treated it like an end, a finale, some great culmination. Arya knew better. There were greater monsters left in this world.

Arya said none of the things she was thinking. Instead she drew and fired, picturing Meryn Trant as he had last looked – with his bloody, empty eye sockets and missing tongue.

“I am celebrating.”

_Thud_.

The arrow hit its mark. She picked up another arrow.

“Yeah. I am too.”

Gendry was strangely breathless, even panicked. She could almost hear his racing pulse. Arya hoped he wouldn’t ask her to join the celebration. There were much better things to be doing. Perhaps even better things to do with him. And as much as she enjoyed her archery practice …

He shuffled and put his hands behind his back. She turned to look at him, curious now. He  _was_  nervous but he was excited too. She now doubted that he had come down here for her …  _company_  alone.

“I’m not Gendry Rivers anymore.”

Her first thought was that he must be more drunk than she’d thought, having forgotten his own name: Gendry  _Waters_ , not Gendry  _Rivers_. Then she processed the meaning. Oh …

He continued, rambling now. “I’m Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.”

Gendry wasn’t looking at her, but she understood his racing pulse now. Perhaps, Gendry had never liked lords and fancy folk, but he’d never said that he wouldn’t want to be one. For a poor boy from Flea Bottom to get such a chance – Arya lowered her bow and turned to him, a smile she couldn’t contain growing on her face.

“By order of the Queen.”

He looked at her, eyes bright and Arya recognized not only excitement and nervousness but energy that was nearly manic. She froze her expression, that growing smile growing dimmer instead. Now, it was merely a quiet smile because she could only think of the implications. What did this mean, that the Queen had bestowed such a title on him? Where did his loyalties lie? Did Gendry really want this? Where would he go? What people would accept such a Lord?

She merely said, “Congratulations.”

He smiled then grabbed her face and kissed her hard. Arya did not object to the kissing, but a sinking feeling began to grow in her stomach.

Gendry began rambling, fear and nerves overcoming his excitement: “I don’t know how to be Lord of anything. I hardly know how to use a fork.”

She almost laughed, the right side of her mouth quirking up, but the feeling of dread grew. What did this mean …

“All I know is that you’re beautiful – “

Her heart skittered and she found her thoughts racing along as fast as his. She was unable to process those words before her heart skipped a beat again.

“ – And I love you – “

Arya wished time would stop. Just for a second.  _I love you_. The thought echoed in her mind. He was looking at her with bright eyes and a flushed face.  _I love you_.  _You_.  _Her_.  _Arya Stark_. The sinking feeling worsened: she wasn’t sure she was capable of love anymore. Not for someone outside her family. Vengeance, righteous anger, and cool calculation were all so familiar. Love was foreign. But … she had always wished he would be her family … Perhaps he  _would_  …

“ – And none of it will be worth anything if you’re not with me.”

Her heart might have cracked in two from strange fuzzy feelings and warmth. Like ice cracks stone. Like heat cracks ice. What was he doing talking about love and worth and the future when her world stretched from one shot to the next? One task to another. Arya didn’t know if she could think beyond tasks and lists. But … perhaps she  _could_.

“So be with me.”

He had such a stupid grin on his face. All softness and something like adoration. Her  _could_ ’s and  _would_ ’s fell away into the yawning pit growing deep inside.  _With_. It was such a small word, but it was entirely unfamiliar. She hadn’t been  _with_  anyone in such a long time. Hadn’t been anything but alone.

He knelt and his face shifted to something like pleading. Gendry put Arya above him; as though he thought she  _was_  above him. Thoughts of status had always plagued him, despite her reassurances.

“Be my wife.”

For a second her heart swelled,  _could’s_  and  _would’s_  rising up and painting a picture of a life she had never imagined. Never being alone and never being cold and getting to see those blue eyes staring at her in wonder every. Single. Day.

But before she could begin to hope, the picture shattered, and all the pieces of the real puzzle came together.

“Be the Lady of Storm’s End.”

The floor might have dropped out from under her and it would have been less painful. Of course. He was a Lord now. A Lord needed a Lady. And things like marriage had never been in store for Arya Stark. For years she had been someone else entirely. But coming back to herself had come with repercussions: the cost of being of noble birth and the cost of being a woman.

He was still smiling and staring at her. The pit yawned, eating up her  _would’s_  and  _could’s_  and hopes and fanciful dreams as it grew and grew and grew. Gendry didn’t know what she was. Didn’t see the wounds on her soul and the stone heart he had cracked in two.

He would never learn. She had once wanted him to be her family, and when he had rejected her, she had become someone capable of being alone forever. Now, he returned, looking for that family. Family that she could not be. She could not be a Lady. And as much as he might love her, as much as she loved him, and as much as the fluttering, gentle part of her heart cried out to say  _yes_ ,  _yes_ , it was not her.

In that moment, looking into his eyes, Arya saw how her fate would play out. She would complete her list. By the time she finished with the capital, her arms would be soaked in blood to the elbow. But in exchange for kept promises and vengeful justice upon those who had harmed her family, her God would strike her down.

Her God was jealous.

She was the Lover of Death. Bride of the Stranger. Wife to No One and No One, herself. Her acceptance of his proposal, of his love, would hinge on the sin of adultery.

_No_. She could not be a Lady. And even if she  _could_ , she  _would_  not. She didn’t want that. For a moment, Arya might have been angry with Gendry. Angry that he didn’t understand her or didn’t care. But staring into his eyes that rage faded replaced by understanding.

He didn’t know what she was. Few did. And how could she blame him for a lack of understanding when she hadn’t told him – didn’t want to tell him for fear of breaking his heart. He saw what he wanted to see: brave spirit, noble soul, fierce heart, beautiful face, stubborn and free and wild, but capable of love and loving him. Gendry deserved all that and more. And despite his declarations that the title meant nothing without her, Arya knew he deserved that too. Happiness. Comfort. A warm featherbed and laughing wife and a future beyond blood and death. All things she could not be. Could not provide.

Gendry must have seen the answer on her face, because his smile fell. She hated to see that smile disappear. So, Arya wiped the expression from her face, mask slipping back into place. Ice formed around her heart to hold the pieces together and ice formed a barrier over the pit in her soul.

She kissed him. Tenderly and sweetly, she kissed him because he deserved it.

She rose and pulled him with her because he deserved it. He deserved to stand tall because he had always been her equal. Perhaps even her better. He deserved every good thing. Arya knew he had never felt worthy – to be her family or her friend or a hero because of tradition and rules and birth. But he deserved to see himself as equal to any other great man, and, if he needed a Lordship to see that, she would not deny him.

Most of all, he deserved happiness.

She enjoyed the kiss, savoring it, knowing it would be the last. Too soon she had to pull away. When she did, Arya crafted her expression carefully, a soft smile. Nothing to show her regrets or sadness.

“You’ll be a wonderful Lord.”

He looked puzzled, eyebrows knitting but smiling at the compliment, nonetheless.

“And any Lady would be lucky to have you.”

His face fell, shock replacing confusion.

It pained her. But it was true. Any Lady would be lucky to have him. And Arya would wish that woman good fortune and long life. Gendry deserved someone who loved him. It was what was best for him. And it hurt Arya to say it, to feel and see the truth of it. But she would always do what was best for him. Best for them all. No matter the cost.

He swallowed, hard. His eyes bored into hers and she saw that tears might be gleaming.

She couldn’t have that. So, she said what was true.

“But I’m not a Lady. I never have been. That’s not me.”

She would never be a Lady. Could never be a Lady, even if she wanted to be. And he deserved a Lady, a wife, a love to spend a life with. The pain in her heart returned as she realized something: not only did he not know what she was now, he didn’t even know who she was at heart. The thought threatened to swallow her whole. Arya wasn’t able to bear it, the thought that he had never really known her at all.

But she pressed it down. What did it matter what he knew. He couldn’t know what she was or who she was. Because she wasn’t anyone at all.

He stepped back. Blinking. Eyebrows still knitted. Arya had to turn away, back to her arrows and imaginings. Tasks and lists. Practice. Planning.

In the House of Black and White, she _hadn’t_ been No One. Arya knew for certain that she was No One now. No One had no future. No life. No loves and no pain. She couldn’t be Arya Stark anymore. Any life she lived as Arya or Arry or M’Lady would be a half-life. A half-truth, covering what she was beneath: liar, assassin, poisoner, cutthroat, whore, thief, priest, and the Dark God’s silent dagger. Gendry deserved  _all_  of something good. Not  _half_  of something rotting with the taint of death. She could not be his Lady, so she would not be Arya Stark.

A calm settled over her, that state of cold she’d grown so familiar with. The killing calm, some called it. Others might call it madness. Arya couldn’t decide what to call it, other than a blessing. Yes, what a blessing it was not to feel.

She notched an arrow in her bow. Gendry was gone before she pulled the bowstring to her cheek. Perhaps a tear had fallen, tracking down past it her fingers.

She didn’t feel it. A girl had no feelings. Arya Stark was locked away in a cell of ice and stone. Perhaps she would freeze to death, before it was all over. A girl did not care, for she knew what she was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Gendry raised his hands and said, “Don't shoot.” Not that she would shoot him. He had nothing to fear from Arya. He had noticed how the others feared her; they found her stealth and skill startling. He was nothing short of impressed. The way she handled those weapons, the way she fought … it made her all the more beautiful. And … it turned him on a bit._
> 
> _It made him love her._
> 
> _He might’ve stalled at that thought: love. But he didn’t even have time to process it before he knew it was true. And seeing her, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, only solidified it._

_Have you seen Arya?_

His thoughts were a whirlwind. All the while He’d been sitting at dinner, he had been wondering where she was. She was not often amongst the crowds, but she should at least eat. At least celebrate _tonight_. She’d killed the fucking Night King and gods-be-damned if she didn’t deserve something to drink.

He had stood to look for her, only to be called upon by the Queen and have his whole life turned upside down.

In the moments after, his thoughts had run in all different directions, eventually coming back to the same place they had been before. _Arya_.

He knew nothing about being a Lord. He was totally and completely lost. He needed advisors and help and someone who knew things about being noble. He needed Arya.

He was a Lord now. He had been raised from the lowliest status of them all – orphan from Flea Bottom –to a great Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Child of a noble House … and so was Arya.

All those years ago, he had rejected her offer for family, not wanting to submit himself to working for her brothers. Wanting to raise himself higher than servant or apprentice. And now he was. He was so high as to be her equal at long last, even if he still didn’t feel it.

Arya. His equal.

Arya, his friend. Arya, his family. Arya, his Lady.

The thought hit him like a stone to the head. It wasn’t fully formed, or even making sense – partially due to the wine and ale and adrenaline and gods-knew-what-else – but Gendry knew in that moment he needed to be with Arya, needed her help, and finally felt worthy to ask for it.

Now, he was walking through the courtyard. He had already checked the stables, the forge, and the armory. She was nowhere to be found, so he headed for the empty storerooms where he knew she practiced archery … Where they had spent the previous night.

 That thought made him go bright red.

Of course, that _was_ on his mind. The Hound had been right. But he was thinking more about feelings than … _that_. His mind was awash in them, happiness and desire bubbling up in a sea of excitement and nerves.

She was firing arrows. She got very close to hitting his nose with the last one.

Gendry raised his hands and said, “Don't shoot.” Not that she would shoot him. He had nothing to fear from Arya. He had noticed how the others feared her; they found her stealth and skill startling. He was nothing short of impressed. The way she handled those weapons, the way she fought … it made her all the more beautiful. And … it turned him on a bit.

It made him love her.

He might’ve stalled at that thought: love. But he didn’t even have time to process it before he knew it was true. And seeing her, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, only solidified it.

It was then Gendry realized he had no idea what to say. Luckily, or perhaps, unluckily, his slightly-drunken brain was full of a ideas. He started rambling.

“It's nighttime. It's freezing. And everyone's celebrating. You should be celebrating with them.”

She should be. Gods-above, Arya deserved the biggest damn party the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Gendry knew she didn’t like crowds, that she preferred the solitude. But he wanted her to be happy. To be with her family, laughing and drinking and cheering. He wanted her to join him at the feast, so he and everyone else could thank her for saving their arses. They should be on their knees, kissing the ground she walked on.

“I am celebrating.” She fired another arrow.

Of course. Only Arya would consider training a celebration.

He had known her to be bloodthirsty, stubborn, and focused when they were younger but now … she was single-minded. With weapons and training. He’d thought perhaps it was because of fear, or a burning desire to train and train and train in order to survive. But they had survived. What more was there to train for? Yes, there was Cersei. But spending this night firing arrows would do nothing to improve her skill.

Arya did not need to train. She knew enough about weapons and fighting not only to protect herself and her family, but also to save _the whole world_.

And yet, Gendry had noticed that her drive for survival and perfection had morphed into an obsession. Arya, like many others, had become a far darker person. He didn’t know why she had changed so or what she had been through. But, as much as he wanted to know, he didn’t expect her to share. What he really wanted, more than anything, was to help her set aside some of that darkness and be happy.

She loved weapons and fighting. She relished the darkness. If she was happy, he would not fear that darkness or  regret its presence. But he knew enough about her – even this darker, scarier her – to know she was not happy. Merely occupied.

He finally responded, “Yeah, I am too.”

_Gods_ , he thought to himself, _couldn’t you think of something better than that?_ I am too. _Idiot_.

But what to say … what to say to get her to step away. To listen to him. He was absolutely freaking out and he needed her. He needed her to listen and be with him and gods if he didn’t need someone calm to help him sort out his thoughts. Damn if he didn’t need someone to anchor him  and guide him because he was now a fucking Lord. And seven-save-him if he didn’t need to tell her that he loved her and he was finally, _finally_ , of the same status as her, though perhaps not worthy of her.

But first he needed her attention. He started with the facts.

“I'm not Gendry Rivers anymore.”

Wait, not Rivers. That was what the Queen had said. He was from the Crownlands so technically he was … had been Gendry Waters. Strange that the Queen hadn’t noticed such a slip up. Not that it mattered much.

“I'm Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End.”

Arya turned to him, finally. Unlike others he’d seen in the hall, she did not look incredulous. He had found their incredulity, their disbelief that a bastard could be so rewarded, insulting. Her smile was beyond gratifying.

“By Order of the Queen.”

Her smile seemed to fall a bit. It likely had to do with the Queen. He knew there was mistrust, perhaps more between the two Stark women and the Dragon Queen. He should probably have chosen his words more carefully. But what did he care for the Queen and their politics? Sure, he was grateful but his loyalty to the Starks would always run deeper. His allegiance was, after all, tied up in his affection.

“Congratulations.”

Her words rang somewhat hollow. She wasn’t nearly as excited as he was. She didn’t get it yet. But he couldn’t find the words to explain, so, instead, he kissed her.

And what a kiss it was. The perfect kiss. Sure, he’d kissed other girls – indeed he’d only _kissed_ those three girls he had implied a deeper relationship with – but her kisses blew all those others out of the water. As he was kissing her, reveling in her taste and his joy, he thought of what to say.

“I don't know how to be Lord of anything. I hardly know how to use a fork.” It was true. He’d been invited to one dinner where there had been two forks, two knives, and a spoon and that had been absolutely terrifying.

She smiled at him. It was a little mocking, a little sweet. He’d wanted her to laugh.

“All I know is that you're beautiful and I love you and none of it will be worth anything if you won't be with me.”

It was true, so true. What did it matter, being a Lord, if he didn’t have help? He’d end up the worst Lord in history. The people of Storm’s End might revolt and throw him into the sea. What did it matter, acquiring such a high rank, if it didn’t mean he was finally the same status as Arya? If he couldn’t be with her?

“So be with me.” Her smile fades. She looks confused, lost … sad? He realizes he’s bumbling this. What did all the stories say? He didn’t know the lordly traditions or protocol or anything. What did fancy knights do when they finally proposed to their Lady loves?

He knelt, and, in doing so, understood the gesture. Much like supplication, like praying, you acknowledge the importance of the one you’re speaking to, and you beg for what you need. Gendry had never been religious, hadn’t gone to his knees to ask the Gods for anything since his mother had died. But he understood the feeling of awe, looking up into her face.

“Be my wife. Be the Lady of Storm's End.”

He doesn’t know if she’ll say yes; perhaps he doesn’t expect her to. What does it matter? He’ll just keep asking.

He knows she needs time. He knows she has priorities and despite the celebration, they are still at war. But despite his reservations and worries, he does not expect her reaction: her face clouds. Her eyes grow sad.

His smile fades as he reads her expression. And he is confused beyond measure. What did he say? This is not the face of someone who needs time, someone who is confused, or occupied, or anything. She looks a mourner at a funeral. He starts to rethink everything he has said - every moment since he has arrived at Winterfell. The flirtation. Their kisses. The gentle press of her lips on his forehead, when she had thought he was still asleep, before the battle began. He thought she loved him. He thought he could feel it in those kisses.

She bestows one of those soft kisses on him now, lifting him up as she does so. His thoughts fade. Surely this doesn’t mean rejection. But as she pulls away, he realizes the kiss was the same as the one before the horns blew. A kiss than can and could mean goodbye.

She smiles, but her voice is low and hoarse with suppressed tears as she says, "You'll be a wonderful Lord." Such an unbelievable statement was never uttered before. And why is she crying? He’s trying to think, but his thoughts are so sluggish (the last goblet of wine had been a bad idea).

"... And any Lady would be lucky to have you. But I'm not a Lady. I never have been. That's not me."

His mistake hits him like a ton of bricks. Shit. Shit. Shit. Memories flash by. How many times has she said it - “I’m not a Lady.” She’d said it a million ways: seriously, indignantly, with humor, and with tears. And he’s just about to retract the statement about being his Lady when he looks at her face again. The beginnings of tears are gone, replaced by a look as cold as ice.

Then he realizes, he already said it: “it all means nothing without you.” Arya misses nothing. She knows he would turn down his Lordship in a heartbeat. But she’s still turning away from him. And he realizes this is a rejection. Not because Arya doesn’t want to be a Lady, not because he isn’t a Lord or is a Lord, or anything else. Despite her usual harshness, her callous words and dark humour, he knows she is not unkind. And she’s doing her best to let him down kindly. Placing the blame on the titles, on ‘Lady’, instead of telling him the truth. Even him, even such a stupid Bull, can understand her meaning: she simply doesn’t love him. She doesn’t want him as a Lord or a lowborn or anything.

He’s trying not to let it affect him. He’s trying to muster anger or anything other than the hollow, empty feeling that has replaced the blooming warmth in his heart. Like withdrawing from a warm hearth to face the icy Northern wind, its cold enough to burn. Or perhaps that’s the tears building behind his eyes.

He presses them down, down, down, down.

Arya picks up her bow and fires. Once again, he’s struck by her beauty. Then by what he has lost. Or perhaps never had. He turns and leaves.

He doesn’t go back to the Hall. Though his only desire is to get absolutely, completely sloshed, he doesn’t want anyone to ask him what’s wrong. He certainly doesn’t want to be teased by the likes of Tormund or the Hound.

So he goes back to the forge. Maybe, because he’s a Lord now, he could ask for a chamber in the castle – a real bed instead of a cot. But the forge is warm and a larger bed would feel empty.

He’s out before he can well and truly dwell on things, but his final pervading thoughts before oblivion strike double blows to his heart: one, he is utterly and completely alone in this new life. Utterly and completely clueless.

Two, it’s very likely he won’t see Arya again. Ever. These days, she’s always hiding. To find her, he’s had to seek her out. And if she doesn’t want to be found by him, he won’t be _able_ to find her. And after … after this war is over, she’s likely going to leave. Leave Westeros. Or, if she doesn’t do that, she’ll return to Winterfell while he journeys to the Storm Lands. He’s never going to see her again. And so, he welcomes the oblivion of sleep, even the gruesome hangover he’s likely to have in the morning. Such distractions are welcome. He’ll probably be trying to distract himself for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been gone for like three months. The end of the show really left me with a sour taste in my mouth. I've had a hard time being invested in or consuming any GOT media. I started this fic right after the episode with the Gendrya proposal/breakup aired. I'm going to finish this fic in the same place the show does, changing as little as possible, but also making it more palatable. Where "Hoarfrost in Her Eyes" is my ideal, this one is perhaps more 'realistic.' See my opinions below: 
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> In truth, I don't think Gendry and Arya would have had "we're going to die"-sex, given that Gendry is a survivor of sexual assault by Melisandre. I don't think he would have been dumb enough to propose so quick, especially with the "Lady" line. I don't think Sansa and Dany would have been so catty and I don't think Dany would become so lifeless and cruel. I don't think Dany would have used Gendry as a political tool. I don't think the big battle would have gone the way it did - that is with such a huge loss of life and NO appearance of Bran's supposed magic-brain powers. All of these corrections will be made in "Hoarfrost in Her Eyes" with some in this fic. More notes on corrections or plot changes to come.

**Author's Note:**

> I ... sad. All we can hope for is, "It all means nothing if you're not with me." 
> 
> Clearly, I did not write the dialogue for this chapter. That shitty writing belongs to David Benioff and D. B. Weiss.
> 
> I dunno if I'll finish the other chapters before episode 5, but I started writing this after I watched the episode and finished this bit at 6 am.
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Update: they did not fix it and I am even more sad. Not just about Gendrya but it was the kicker for me. The rest of the season was so depressing and so out of character for so many that I hoped they would at least give us Gendrya. They did not.


End file.
